


The Road to Ruin

by Buffintruda



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buffintruda/pseuds/Buffintruda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even though you know where the path will take you, you can’t help but follow it to ruin. Grantaire angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Ruin

From the very beginning, Grantaire knew it was foolishness. Even at the start, there was never hope that anything good could ever come out of it. All it could ever lead to was pain and tragedy. Hanging around a group of young student revolutionaries as devoted to their cause as Les Amis de l‘ABC were, in this time and place could never end in anything else. At first Grantaire tried to keep his distance, to not get too close to them because he knew that they were doomed to lose and die, should they ever try to revolt. But before he had even spent a full year in their company, he knew he had failed. Somehow, during those few, short months, Les Amis - The Friends - had turned into ses amis - his friends. Because strangely enough, they grew to accept Grantaire’s presence, even enjoy it on occasion. He was ensnared in their web of affection and faith. If they rebelled, he knew he would have no other option but to accompany and die with them. His heart would never allow him do otherwise. The smart thing to do would be to run. To leave and never return, before it was too late, before he was irreversibly trapped. But Grantaire had never been accused of being smart. Every day he spent with them, the chains of love and friendship tightened. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to truly care about that.

Still, were it that alone, perhaps he could have yanked himself away. Maybe he never would have gotten so close in the first place. But it wasn’t just them. An unnaturally large portion of it was Enjolras. Beautiful, dazzling Enjolras, with all of his devotion and belief. He was everything that Grantaire was not, everything he could never be. Enjolras who was the least tolerant of his presence. It was his words that captivated Grantaire, his speeches, flowing and burning like a waterfall of sunlight. Enjolras’s conviction of their truth _almost_ made Grantaire believe in a better future. Because if anyone could fix the world, it would be that godly being. He was so incredibly bright and fiery and how could Grantaire not be swept up in the storm that was Enjolras? Like a strand of seaweed pulled out by the tide, he was hopelessly lost before he could even think to fight it. If Enjolras asked him to stand up to the king and the idea of monarchy itself, he would, because Grantaire believed in him. Even if it led to his death. Even if it led to the death of his only friends.

Perhaps Grantaire should’ve left and found other friends, ones who did not wish to drag him into “a better future” that was doomed to never succeed. Another, lesser man would have. But despite all of his many flaws, Grantaire was nothing, if not loyal. Not that it counted for much. Other than his friends, his only other loyalty was to the bottle. He did not belong with them; his presence was like a dark stain on the sun. But they, Joly and Bossuet in particular, actually _wanted_ him to stay. They enjoyed his company and accepted Grantaire for who he was, at least, more than anybody else had, despite their many differences and disagreements. It never ceased to amaze him, and that only made his love and appreciation for them grow.

The thing about love is that when one is without it, it seems silly and very unsensible. However, when you have it, love tricks you into thinking that it is the most wonderful thing in the universe. It clouds your mind so that those on the receiving end become become your universe, and mean more to you than your own self does. Not that Grantaire had ever cared much for himself. People who like giving wise sounding but most likely apocryphal and misleading advice tell young, naive dreamers to listen to their hearts. Grantaire’s heart told him to stay. His mind told him to leave; staying was hazardous. Logic and reason said to listen to his mind. His soul said it didn’t matter what _it_ thought, Grantaire would always listen to his heart, no matter what tried to convince him otherwise because emotion was an incredibly powerful thing that defied rational thought. So he remained.

His mind, of course, was right. Even before the barricades that he knew would one day rise because of the revolutionaries, simply knowing them, especially Enjolras, hurt. At times Grantaire felt empty, like a burning, gaping pit of loneliness in his middle that demanded to be fed. It was especially large when he was without them, although it had never existed before he had met them. He ignored it and covered it up, he tried to fill it with drinks and his friends. Still it remained. Because it was a hole that could only be completely filled with Enjolras’s contribution. A smile, a few kind words, and gentle look in his direction. Any of it would do. But he would never aim any of those things at Grantaire. So Grantaire settled for less. An insult, a harsh, irritated, disdainful or pitying look, anything to make the hollow nothingness a little less. But those hurt, like part of his soul was ripped out and torn to shreds, only to torturously grow back for the next time. Grantaire knew what it felt like to be Prometheus.

He also knew that he would do almost anything Enjolras asked. It was rather terrifying, actually, that one man had more power over him than every other person combined. Unfortunately, the only things Enjolras asked of him were probably the only things he would not do. Grantaire would not stop drinking, nor could he start believing in the dreams and ideals the other revolutionaries held. It was lucky that Enjolras had never asked him to leave. Grantaire would have, and that would break his soul and destroy everything good in life. His friends were all he had. Only once, did Grantaire volunteer to do something Enjolras wanted done. After that failure, he never tried again.

The last order he had received from Enjolras, the last one he’d disobeyed, had been given to him at the barricades. Because this time, no matter who demanded, Grantaire would never leave his friends to die by themselves. It would be one thing to flee or be exiled at another time, but not now. Grantaire was far past the point of no return. Had it been anyone else, Grantaire would’ve felt an intense fury towards the person who dared asked him to abandon the only lights in the otherwise dark void that was his life. But because it was Enjolras, he could never do that. Grantaire could see the slight confusion in his eyes, probably wondering why the skeptic had even bothered to come, and why he would want to stay. So instead, of rage, he felt a gentle, bitter sort of humor. Enjolras was the golden leader of the barricade, a man who acted and appeared to be a god, and yet there was so much he didn’t know. He knew nothing of the man who scoffed at Enjolras’s life’s work, and yet would still follow him into glory and a certain death. He knew nothing of Grantaire’s motivations and beliefs, nothing of his loyalties. 

The saddest thing was, in the end, it was all worth it. Every second of internal turmoil, every moment of drowning in depressing pessimism, every sleepless night spent dreading his friends’ inevitably blood-soaked future, every one of Les Amis’ sad, pitying looks or Enjolras’s scornful glares. All of that and more, was a fair trade for Grantaire’s last moments. Because then, finally, Enjolras saw that Grantaire _did_ believe in something, that he would sacrifice his life for it, even if he might have incorrectly thought that the skeptic was doing it for the republic. There was an odd sort of amazed joy at that; Grantaire never believed in the best of anybody, and although he knew that there never really was another option for him, he still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that he was willing to die for what mattered most to him. Threatening to swamp the other emotions were fear, uncertainty and the near hysterical feeling similar to a sarcastic snort or a roll of the eyes, because _of course_ he would do this. Because he couldn’t move on, because his self-preservation instinct was nearly nonexistent, because of all people he could have befriended, it _had_ to be these ones. (But would he really want it any other way?) But, while those turbulent feelings did not vanish, they certainly faded when something unbelievable happened. For the first time in over half a decade of knowing him, five years of craving a single amiable look, 62 months of pushing down all hope of anything of that sort happening, Enjolras _smiled_ at him.

Grantaire had never believed that simple actions could convey complex messages. A smile meant that person was pleased, or they were pretending to be pleased. Smiles were used differently depending on the situation. They could be used to express happiness, to thank someone, to intimidate someone, or to be polite. And that was that. This smile however, spoke whole novels. In a few seconds, it said everything that could not be verbally squeezed in between those precious few heart beats. It contained an apology, gratitude, astonishment, affection and comfort. His eyes held the echoes of grief, guilt, fear, desperation and an aching loneliness that had been washed away by Grantaire’s presence. If normally Grantaire was like droplets of water that cause the fire that was Enjolras to sputter and spark, then this time, he put out the bad flames, giving room for the better parts to spread and blaze in their full glory.

Enjolras took his hand. It was warm and sweaty, and so was Grantaire’s, because no matter how distant and unreal the Guardsmen seemed, no matter how surreal the situation felt, they were about to die and death is not something anyone can face fearlessly. It felt like a moment frozen in time, like it would never stop, it _could_ never stop. What was going to happen next was impossible, because with death so close, Grantaire couldn’t quite accept that next was nothingness. That single fragment of time stretched and stretched, clinging to the last instant these two men were still alive. But that endless yet all too brief instant snapped, shattered by the firing of guns.

And everything. Just. Stopped.

Two hearts halted. Two dreams ended. A smile left unfinished. A story of two men whose lives had only just begun to intertwine with acceptance and friendship, a tale now finished, never to be completed.

Bullets tore through his body and Grantaire fell to the floor at Enjolras’s feet. The amalgamation of thoughts and memories that called itself Grantaire no longer existed. All that was left a large cluster of atoms. Grantaire was not surprised with this sudden and violent death. He had known from the very beginning that this road he had chosen could only lead to ruin.


End file.
